


Veritas Omnia

by lucdarling



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Marvel (Movies), NCIS, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Avengers (2012), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Military Fetish, dogtags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five military people Clint Barton met through the years and the one he settled down with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Logan

**Author's Note:**

> Written anonymously for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/1854.html?thread=390462#t390462<br />) on November 7, 2011.

Clint isn't aware he has this _thing_ for dogtags until his bed partner is leaning over him, tags dangling between them tantalizingly. Clint doesn't give it another thought before reaching for the chain, tugging lightly to bring the mouth closer to his. Logan, no last name given, laughs into his mouth, low and rumbling when Clint doesn't let go of the metal, wrapping them around his fist instead to keep them connected.

They fuck in the dirty motel like it's going out of style, no words spoken. Logan bites down on his shoulder, stopping just short of drawing blood as he climaxes. Clint returns the favor, teeth sinking into the muscle of the older man when his hand wraps around his leaking cock and strokes Clint to completion. He lies back and pants, catching his breath. His fingers slowly let the tags slip free as he falls into sleep, Logan's hot chest against his back.

They wake a few hours later and Logan lights a cigar. Clint has trouble keeping his eyes from drifting to the chain, blushing like a teenager when Logan only grins and tucks them underneath his t-shirt. Logan climbs back on his motorcycle after they trade intel and Clint's hand presses against Logan's chest, soft worn cotton between his own palm and the tags as he kisses the other man once more. Logan doesn't let him keep them, or even one, because they're his only link to a past he can't remember.


	2. Steve McGarrett

Clint remembers how the sun-warmed metal feels against his back as the other man opened him up slowly, sliding in smooth and deep a minute later. The tags jangle with every slow thrust, sweat dropping onto Clint's spine as their bodies move together. DADT might still be in effect, but both men figure a little slack is a given right in their line of work. It's not like either of them are going to write home about what they saw or who they did during the endless hours of waiting for reconnaissance reports and orders from the faraway voices on the radio.

McGarrett is officially not in the desert in the middle of nowhere, which suits the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent just fine, because neither is he. Clint is tagging alongside the US Navy Seal team to make sure the Ten Rings sleeper cell is taken down and to learn where their weapons are coming from. He doesn't ask for a keepsake of their time, because it never happened.


	3. Ziva David

The Mossad agent is muscle wrapped in soft curves beneath him, eyes blown even darker with lust. Her single dog tag shines in the dim light, Hebrew etching catching his eye more than once; or, more likely, it's the way the metal moves with each rise of her chest as she sighs and rolls her hips to meet his thrusts.

Clint smirks down at her, forearms bracketing her body as he leans over her to press a kiss to one breast then the other. He lets his teeth graze over the hardened nipple lightly, delighting in both her growl and the way she clenches around him when she orgasms.

This is the second assassin he's fallen into bed with and Clint is pretty sure the name he said in bed isn't really hers. He doesn't mind, sated and stretched out on the cot as she dresses. She grins at him, a quirk of her lips more than anything before she's out the door and disappearing into the dark. Clint thinks about the Star of David cut out of the rectangle all the way back to HQ.


	4. John Watson, M.D.

Clint finds himself in the desert once again, dropped in unceremoniously by S.H.I.E.L.D. to start collecting intel on the late Obadiah Stane's connection to the Ten Ring organization. He's caught unawares in a bombed-out village, four insurgents popping out from behind the wreck of a car and AK-47s leveled at his head. Clint is able to put two of them down with only a graze to himself and is moderately surprised when the other two fall at the same time. He calculates the trajectory of the bullets and turns his head to spot the shooter on the street corner two buildings behind him. Clint wonders if this is how Natasha feels when he plays guardian sniper – the smirk on his face widens when he meets his savior in the space between them. Two circular tags dangle in front of his desert camo flak jacket, sunlight bouncing off them as he walks closer.

John Watson is short, craggy-faced and British. The two weeks Clint spends with the Royal Army doctor are filled with more mugs of tea than can be counted, hours of boring stake outs and a truly awful sandy-colored sweater that John puts on when the sun goes down. Three hours before he's extracted Clint figures he has the temperament of Dr. Watson right and won't get kicked in the teeth when he slides to his knees in the privacy of the canvas tent.

Clint keeps his eyes on those metal circles above his head as he licks and sucks, the firm hands of Dr. Watson threading through his blond hair but politely not tugging too much. His tongues presses against the vein on the underside as the hands on his head grasp tighter and Clint sucks him down deeper until there's a sudden rush of warm liquid in his mouth. Clint spits to the side of the cot and turns his head to smirk up at the other man. The doctor smiles down at him, leaning back on his hands as Clint tucks his softening member back into his pants. Clint waves off the soft noises that he takes to mean that John wants to return the favor – clearly Clint blew his brains out if he can't form a coherent sentence yet and his grin turns smug at that thought – and he uses a finger to run down the beaded chain, pressing the discs against a muscled chest.

“Take care of yourself out there, John.” Clint taps the tags once, winks and shoulders his pack, walking out into the twilight to the extraction point.


	5. John Winchester

Clint is ordered to a backwater bar to make contact with an ex-Marine who's running around the country causing trouble. He bites his tongue to keep from asking how much trouble digging up graves can really cause since Clint doesn't need another black mark on his S.H.I.E.L.D. file.

He takes a seat on the bar stool in the corner and orders a bottle, watching the older man deftly shoot the two remaining striped balls into the right side pocket. The other player scowls at Winchester as he collects his winnings but is smart enough even while drunk to realize that tangling with him would be a bad idea. The man practically exudes danger, like a tiger tensed and ready to spring at any moment. Clint shifts to the right, closer to the man who is downing Jack like it's water. He doesn't want to get on the bad side of this unknown subject, but orders are orders.

“Something you want, son?” John Winchester's voice is low and gruff, the kind of growl that goes straight to Clint's cock. He tamps down on the automatic instinct to call him sir and starts a carefully worded conversation. It really would be better to send Natasha in for this sort of work, but Fury had already dispatched her to some other corner of the nation to tangle with Winchester's son in a similar mission. It seemed this hunting was the family business, though Clint was wary as Winchester regaled him with tales of ghosts and the usefulness of salt rounds with fervent belief in his dark eyes. Clint's eyes are drawn to the chain that disappears under the layers of plaid and flannel every so often, but the stories John spins are too interesting to let the steel keep his attention for too long.

He writes up his evaluation on the plane ride home less than a day later, knees already cramping in the small space. Clint doesn't think John Winchester would be well-suited to the type of work S.H.I.E.L.D. usually handles, but makes a note of the modified weapons John spent the better part of an hour describing just in case.


	6. Phil Coulson

The final person Clint Barton learns who has dog tags from the military is not quite wholly unexpected but it's still a shock to find them.

“You're just full of surprises, aren't you?” He murmurs to the cold rectangles laying in the palm of his hand. Clint had been planning to reorganize Phil's small armory to make room on the wall for his spare compound bow but was taken aback by the chain hanging next to the door. He knew in his head that his lover had to have them somewhere; the tattoo from his time in the 160th was a dead giveaway of military service in the first place but something shoots through his veins at physically holding the memento.

“Oh, you found those.” Phil's voice is amused when Clint lifts his eyes from the stainless steel to look at Phil's face. His lips turn up in a smile as Clint hangs them back on the hook and takes a step closer to kiss him deeply. “Never would have taken you for a military groupie,” Phil whispers fondly, hand carding through Clint's hair when they break apart.

“I just like competence,” Clint half-heartedly protests as Phil backs him up against the wall, leaning up to trail a line of kisses across his jaw. “It's not my fault most of them happen to be wearing dog tags.” The agent laughs into his neck, biting down lightly before pulling away and heading toward the bedroom.

“So I shouldn't tell you I left Delta Force for a job in the The Activity?” Phil calls back, laughter in his voice. Clint's jaw clicks shut audibly as his cock swells so fast it's almost painful. He practically tackles the other man to the bed and learns that Phil is laughing at him, the bastard. Clint doesn't care at the moment though, because his lean fingers are sliding between skin and restrictive cloth, taking Clint in his hand. He's so turned on at this moment it's hard for his brain to coordinate with his hands, but Clint manages to unbutton the work shirt, leaning down to seal his mouth over a sensitive nipple.

Phil seems to give up on stroking him with the awkward angle this creates, letting Clint rut against his own hardness as one hand strokes over the arched back and the other slips between them. It doesn't take long for both of them to spill over Phil's fist, Clint falling to the right of the older man.

“ISA, really?” Clint questions, eyes half-lidded as he turns his head to look at Phil.

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” the agent remarks blandly, pressing a kiss to Clint's temple. The archer grins and moves closer to him at the words, falling asleep soon after in Phil's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Veritas Omnia_ , Latin for “The Truth of All Things” and part of ISA's official motto.


End file.
